"How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. The venturous climber gazed for a moment at the assemblage beneath, to ascertain that he was not discovered; and, having satisfied himself in this particular, he stepped out more boldly. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. She had never imagined life was half so sinister as it looked to her in the beginning of these investigations. "I've got to see him; but I'll be reasonable. The money will last longer, and—it won’t bother you. Neither Charvill nor his heir know anything of your presence in England.
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